Burning Memory
by voxinatwitch
Summary: The brothers are out riding through the middle of nowhere in the Impala late at night when Dean finds a song on the radio that leads to unbidden flashbacks.
1. Chapter 1

Sam checked the time on the dashboard clock: 12:00 AM, plenty of time to get some rest, he realized, as he began to really entertain vague hopes of going to sleep.

"Man, come on," Dean groaned from the driver's seat, "Really? Radio here sucks," directing his annoyance at the airwaves as he thumbed the dial, switching rapidly through different frequencies until something caught his ear.

'Say your prayers little one,' the radio blared. 'Don't forget, my son.'

"Ah, finally, some Metallica!" Dean exclaimed, breaking into a grin as he turned it up.

"What, I thought you didn't listen to anything made after 1980," Sam jibed.

"Really, it's Metallica, man. And it's a classic. Enter, Sandman: that's from '91. Anyway, my car, and you know what the rules are—"

"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole," Sam yawned. "Look, I don't really care. I'm gonna try to get some shut eye, if that's OK with you and Sandman there."

"Sounds good. We should be in Boise by 3:00…" Dean trailed off, humming along with the music.

Sam nodded wordlessly, letting his eyes rove over the shadow forms of trees and fields and barns that they passed, allowing the darkness to engulf his mind.

'Exit lights,' the radio blared. 'Enter night…'

He let his eyes fall shut, weariness making his hand clumsy as he reached to lean his seat back yet more, letting himself sink back into the well-worn leather.

'Sleep with one eye open…'

The noise from the radio filtered off into distant unawareness as sleep engulfed his mind.

Sam felt himself jerk awake suddenly, uncertain of what had roused him.

He was startled to see that Dean was standing over him in the half-light of a motel room.

"Wait, where are we?" He asked.

"What? We're in Manheim, dumby," Dean muttered, turning so that the light that filtered in through the blinds hit his face, his young features set in a grim frown.

"But—" Sam interrupted.

"Just shut up and go back to sleep, OK? I was just checking on you." Dean replied, his tone as grouchy as his eyes were tired.

"Fine with me," Sam mumbled back sleepily, turning over on the lumpy bed to get comfortable.

The next day, he was sitting on the bed, flipping through channels on the TV. He quickly went past an infomercial for cooking pots, the news, and some kid's program. The rest of the channels came in differing levels of awful, the picture flickering in and out of existence as static ate the sound. A baseball game appeared for a few seconds on one channel until the aging set flickered and it buzzed with an onslaught of static that swallowed the one potentially interesting show.

"Dang it," he snapped to himself. "Why won't you work?" He tried going up and down a couple more times through the channels, stopping often to check the channel with the game, but it was still so bad it was all just snow on the monitor. Sighing, he turned away from the ailing TV, absently looking around the room for something, anything to do.

Dean was gone, to get them something to eat, he'd said, and his dad hadn't been around for a couple days.

His gaze roved around the room, over the two slept-in beds, the bathroom door that was peeling paint, and their suitcases in the corner. He went over to his, rifling through it momentarily, past the dirty jeans that needed washing, the old tin of soldier figures, and the well-worn books he'd read a million times over. He didn't know what he was expecting to find. There was nothing in there he wanted. His attention turned to Dean's suitcase. Maybe there was something in there? Anything, anything at all would be better than sitting in this empty room for another afternoon. He dug through it, disappointed to find nothing but the schoolbooks he'd already resorted to reading the day before, and similarly dirty clothes.

He grunted with frustration, going to sit back on the bed, listening to the static from the TV. He waited what seemed forever, hoping for the game to appear again between the static, but it didn't. He found himself studying the cracks in the ceiling, which disappeared into the top of the wall.

He lay staring until he thought he'd lose his mind, at which point he jumped up again, looking again over the room for something to do.

His attention turned to the dresser, which he remembered absently, would in some motels contain a Bible. It was long, grim, and kind of boring most places, from what he remembered of the last time he'd been compelled to read one, but at this point he'd gladly read a dictionary if he had one, so a Bible, he decided, especially if he could find one of the exciting stories of wars, would be just fine reading.

He opened the top drawer, which was just above eye-level for him. He groped around, blindly pushing past his dad's teeshirts that were stacked there until he felt something. Standing on tiptoe, he looked into the drawer to see with anticipation what he realized was a leather-bound book.

He picked it up, pushing the drawer back in with a thump, and settled down on the bed to read it.

He examined it carefully, realizing that it wasn't a Bible after all. It didn't say Bible on the front of it; it was just a brown leather book. He cracked the cover, and to his surprise, saw handwriting in the front of it.

_November 6, 1983_

_I buried my wife today… _

A journal, he realized. And not just any journal—Dad's journal.

He started reading quickly, magnetically, transfixed by the realization and by the words on the page. He felt a strange mixture of emotion, both a guilt at reading something not meant for him, and the tug of a morbid curiosity, as he continued to read, tears forming in his eyes, which he clawed at with a knuckle.

He read through several entries. His mom, his mom was gone, he'd known, but seeing it said like this was like a punch in the gut.

_Mary…on the ceiling…_ The line stuck in his mind after he read it. He shuddered, a deep and breathless one that shook him straight through the core of his body. He could almost feel the ferocious intensity of the fire, the rush of wind as the windows blew out, and hear his dad's shout—

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to hold himself back in the present.

Despite himself, despite, or perhaps because of, in a strange way, the intense dread the permeated his mind now, he felt compelled to keep reading.

_…__I heard these noises…sounded…like whispering a name, under their breath, again and again… _

Sam gasped at this, beginning to shake. Whispering….whispering. How could it be, he wondered, because sometimes he heard it too. The voices at night, that if he complained, Dean said weren't real, and told him to shut up and go back to sleep. But the voices, the whispering. They usually just whispered, but once in awhile, when he was alone, he could hear them better. He knew what they said.

_They said his name._


	2. Chapter 2

He was shaking now so that the book trembled in his hands, the edges of the pages growing mushy with the sweat that now beaded on the palms of his hands.

Yet still, he read on.

What he saw next frightened him even more.

One word stood out on the page, like it was the only one there. _Demons._ It seemed to swallow his vision, the letters shifting from black to the thick red of blood on the page. He could almost feel the fire around him again, hear the screaming, the taste of something metallic in his mouth that burned on his tongue….

He scrambled frantically at a sudden noise now, that broke through the depths of his hellish daydream.

"Sam. What—what are you doing?! That's Dad's, you shouldn't be looking at that!" Dean, it was Dean, he realized as he looked up from where he was sprawled on the bed..

The journal lay open on the crumpled blankets between his sneakered feet, the headboard pressing into his back as he'd scampered back across the bed from where he'd been sitting at the foot when Dean burst in.

Sam tried to speak but no words came out, only an empty woosh of air.

Dean picked the book up, closing it. Wordlessly, he placed it deliberately back in the top drawer, a serious look on his face.

"Really, you shouldn't go nosing into stuff that's not yours," Dean reproached as he turned to face Sam, who stared blankly out in front of him.

"Sam?" Dean asked after an uncomfortable moment or so had passed without any sign of recognition from Sam.

"Sammy? What's going on with you?" Dean sat on the bed beside him, shaking his shoulder, feeling the stonelike tension of his brother's tightly coiled muscles.

"Quit messing—" Dean muttered as Sam failed to respond, his voice now rising with alarm. "Sammy!"

With a quick, shuddering gasp, Sam snapped back to reality. He leaned weakly, trembling now against his brother's shoulder.

"It—it—" he tried to get the words out, but the unreasoningly surreal terror of the experience stole his voice.

"You saw it, didn't you?" Dean asked, his tone now softer, far sadder than it had been angry just seconds ago.

Sam nodded miserably, trying not to cry.

"Look, it's gonna be OK," Dean mumbled, wrapping his arms around Sam, who relaxed exhaustedly against his brother, the tears finally escaping to slide down his face.

"It's OK, really," Dean said again, squeezing Sam into a hug. "It's OK. I'm here. Nothing's gonna get to you…."

They sat thus, on the bed, Dean silently comforting Sam the only way he knew to offer it; by his mere presence.

It took Sam quite a while to calm down, but finally he did, migrating eventually from his brother's arms to curling up against the headboard, knees to his chest, a terribly grim frown twisting his face.

After what seemed an unbearably long period to Dean, he finally stood up from where he sat, proclaiming, "Hey, Sammy, you still hungry? Remember, I was going to get food? Well, I've got sandwich stuff, Cheetos and crackers, OK?"

Sam only nodded, staring passively as Dean picked up the grocery bag from where he'd dropped it. He brought it to the table that sat between the two beds, where he unpacked baloney, a loaf of bread, paper plates, a box of crackers, and a big bag of Cheetos.

He opened the bread, putting two slices on a plate for each of them, and a piece of lunchmeat between those, shoving Sam's plate toward him as he bit into his own.

After a moment, he realized Sam wasn't moving, staring blankly at the wall behind him. "Hey, dude, aren't you gonna eat?"

Sam snapped back to reality, it seemed, grabbing the bag of Cheetos, which he ripped open, dumping some on the table in the process.

"Oh, OK, let's miss the plate why don't we?" Dean cracked with a grin. Yet instead of the smile it would have usually brought to Sam's lips, he merely twitched a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug as he picked up a fistfuls of Cheetos, which he slowly began to eat before moving to the sandwich.

It was Dean's turn to frown, grabbing a handful of cheese puffs from the bag to put on his plate. He was done with them in seconds, reaching for more as the weight of whatever change had overcome Sam pressed at his nerves. It was quiet in the room; too quiet, he decided, standing.

"Hey, Sam," he called, relief visibly tinting his face as Sam glanced up.

"I'm gonna turn the TV on, OK?"

Sam didn't reply out loud but shook his head.

"Oh, come on, dude!" Dean exclaimed, the frustration and pressure of the situation, of Sammy's strange behavior, leeching into his voice, before he thought better of it and added, softer this time, "You've had all day to watch what you want. It's just too quiet in here, so I'm gonna turn something on."


	3. Chapter 3

Dean moved to grab the remote, turning it on. The old set buzzed to life, flickering images in and out of the picture.

"Ugh," Dean grunted, flipping a few channels up and down in each direction, yet finding nothing. "Hang on, lessee what I can do here," he murmured, as much to himself as to Sam, who remained motionless, staring from where he sat on the edge of the bed.

Dean approached the TV, sneezing at the dust that came up when he grabbed the antennas. Angling them one way, then another, he frowned with concentration as he positioned them in the manner that seemed to attract the best signal.

After a moment, he stepped back, saying, "See? Told ya I could get it to come in."

He glanced back over at Sam, who was all too still for his comfort.

"Sammy?" His voice was thin, young, over the din of the TV, which had now picked up the news.

Sam startled, his eyes growing wide at the question from his brother, before he nodded, silently, his eyes falling again.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean said again, coming to sit beside his brother on the bed.

"Look, it's OK. I'm not mad. Not real mad, anyways. And…dad won't be either. You get bored. I know. S'why I like to get out when I can. Maybe you can go fishing with me tomorrow." He said quietly, expecting a smile from Sam, but got nothing but a slow headshake.

"What? You rather play baseball or something?" Dean tried again.

"No," Sam mumbled. "No…" His face grew tense as he spoke, his eyes squeezing shut as if to block something out, Dean realized.

"Oh. Yeah…you, you saw it didn't you?"

Sam nodded miserably, burying his face in his brother's shoulder.

"It's alright. I'm here…I won't let anything happen to you, OK?" Dean said, hugging him back.

"It's alright…" Dean found himself muttering over and over, staring at the wall as his mind wandered.

Sam knew now, at least some of it, apparently.

Just what, though, he wasn't sure, and he wasn't sure it mattered either.

What did matter though, was that they were together.

…..

Sam eventually fell asleep lying against Dean, who eased him back onto the pillow, and put a blanket over him, letting him sleep so he could get out of his jeans and tee shirt and into pajamas.

He lay down in the other bed, staring at the shadows that grew across the floor as the evening wore on into night.

Sam knew. Knew something. Whatever it was—he remembered how Sam sat rigid, frozen from some sort of fear or some sort of paranoia, and how he'd collapsed shaking in his arms. Something was eating him apart from the inside out. He wasn't even talking, which wasn't like him, either.

Sam was a worrier. Knowing him, he'd make up things that were worse than what really was, spinning them around in his head until he couldn't take it anymore. No, it was better, dean decided, to go ahead and tell him. He couldn't imagine how much worse Sam would make himself in the next few days it took Dad to get back. No, he had to know, and it needed to be soon, before it got any worse.

…..

In the morning, after they'd eaten sandwiches for breakfast, they sat around watching the one static-y cartoon channel that came in quietly, the volume turned down low.

Dean, though, wasn't really watching. He'd been staring at his brother for several minutes, until it went to commercial, when he spoke up.

"Do you want to know?" Dean asked, his voice serious as he leaned his elbows on the table.

"Know what?" Sam asked.

"The truth. What's in Dad's journal," Dean replied, nodding toward the dresser where it was stashed.

"No—" Sam muttered, shaking his head.

"It's OK. But dude, what all did you see? What scared you so bad?"

Sam opened is mouth like he was going to say something but nothing came out, his face crumpling into a dark, terrified frown.

"I know, it's scary," Dean continued, moving to sit on the bed beside him, where he put an arm around him. "But maybe if you knew the whole story it would help."

Sam shook his head violently.

"It started when mom died," Dean said.

"But—I thought-Mom died in a fire—" Sam whispered, as if he was afraid saying the words out loud would make something bad happen.

"Yeah, I know. But, something else caused it. It wasn't just a fire. Dad's been looking for it ever since then," Dean said slowly, making eye contact with Sam as he tried to see if he understood.

Sam looked away as Dean finished, his eyes growing wide.

"Wh—what would do something like that?" Sam shuddered.

"Yeah, that's kind of the question he's been trying to find out. But…that's not all. You know that feeling you get, at night, when you're afraid something's in your closet? Or—or you know, when you watch scary movies? Do you ever feel like something's watching you?"

Sam nodded slowly, confusion showing in his face.

"Well, that stuff is real. It's out there, and it hurts people—"

"Monsters?" Sam gasped, sucking in a breath that was a little too long and shuddering to be normal, his voice tinny with the high pitch of anxiety, "Monsters…are real?"

"Yeah. They're real. But that's not all there is to it. There's also people that stop monsters. They're called hunters. Dad's a hunter. He's a hero. Like Batman." Dean smiled as he said this, hoping it would make Sam cheer up a little too.

"Dad's…like…Batman…?" Sam mumbled, blinking slowly as if to absorb all the new information.

"Sort of," Dean said, "I mean he fights badguys. Monsters. And like Batman he can't tell anybody it's him that does it."

"Is that why Dad's gone all the time? He's not working, like he says, is he? Is he fighting monsters, like…Batman…?" Sam asked suddenly.

"Yeah. When he's gone—although no, that is his job. His work is fighting monsters."

"Dad…fights monsters," Sam echoed, his expression a strange mixture of confusion, surprise, and amazement.

"How—" Sam began suddenly, only to be cut off by Dean, who sputtered at first.

"He k—he makes sure they uh, can't hurt anybody every again," Dean chose his words carefully, correcting himself as he decided Sam had already had enough new information for one morning.

"Oh," was the only response he got from Sam, whose expression was now far lighter, far happier, as it should be. More normal. Dean sighed to himself, more Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

cartoons, he found himself pulled into a torrent of memories that their conversation had brought surging back past the floodbreaks of time, duty and routine. He flashed to the fire, Dad shoving baby Sam into his arms, running back in looking for mom. The yells dad gave, the next several days when he was too quiet, and alternately too happy, smiling emptily down at them like it was a mask. The men in suits who came and asked questions like they wanted something. Police, he'd figured out later when he was old enough to understand.

Then the morning they'd woken up in the back seat of the car. and had been on the road ever since. Dean hadn't known for quite a while what dad did, or what he was looking for. He'd left them at Bobby's a few times for weeks on end, disappearing and coming back beat up and quiet.

Dean shook his head, as he pushed the events of that night back in the recesses of memory, looking out the window as he made himself smile.

"Hey, Sammy, how about let's go for baseball like we talked about yesterday?"

"Sure," Sam looked up, a small grin lighting up his face, the mere change in expression seeming to bleed some of the heaviness out of the room.

Dean nodded, standing as reached to turn off he TV. He grabbed a bag that held their ball, bat and gloves as they filed out of the room. Dean slamming the door shut as they took off for the empty lot past the end of he motel parking lot into the stifling morning brightness.

….

Late that night, when Sam was already asleep in his bed, Dean sat up, reading a sports magazine by flashlight. He paused, his eyes beginning to grow tired of tracing the small letters in the weak light, as the article on suspected doping in Kansas U's football team grew progressively duller. Blinking slowly, he shoved the magazine away onto the bedside table, staring at the shadows from the flashlight as he relaxed, letting himself begin to drift off, the unassuming but accustomed comfort of a mildly lumpy mattress and pilled sheets welcoming him to sleep.

Time indeterminate passed as he edged through the beginning stages of sleep, rolling over a couple times to get settled, when something made him snap upright in the bed, fumbling with he flashlight, which still glowed golden where it lay beside him.

A grating and bumping noise made him jump, muscles coiling tensely as his hands, clumsy with fatigue jerked the switch on the flashlight to turn it off.

Someone was there, he realized, alarm mounting. He cursed his stupidity as he realized turning the light off let whoever or whatever it was outside know that was there someone inside, aware of their presence…

He grimaced, reaching for the bedside table by touch alone, the shadows too thick at the moment as his eyes adjusted to the dark to see where his fingers were going.

He found the edge of the drawer, silently groping inside for a moment before he felt he cold muzzle of his gun. His fingers curled around it, bringing it to his side.

He swung his legs off he bed, moving as quietly as he could to the window, which he could make out by he dim glow of the light that seeped past the tightly pulled curtains.

Crouching by the windowsill, he edged the hem of one of the curtains back just enough he could see out. Yet, the angle from where it was around the corner from the door occluded any useful view.

He frowned grimly, heart pounding dully in his ears as he heard a scratching noise from the doorknob now.

He drew in a sharp breath as the lock turned, aiming the gun at the intruder as the door swung open—

Light pouring in, he felt his tense muscles go lax as he recognized he haggard but welcomingly familiar silhouette of John Winchester.

"Dad," he exclaimed in a whisper, letting his aim drop so the gun pointed to the floor.

"Hey, Dean," John said tiredly, as his son ran to his side, encircling his torso in a tight hug.

John groaned heavily at his son's embrace, shifting uncomfortably. "Careful, there," he murmured, edging back as Dean let go, his face falling.

"Sorry," the boy said awkwardly, frowning, wishing now he'd done anything else just then. "I, uh, it's just been a long few days."

"It's fine," John returned gruffly. "Just take it easy. This week wasn't the best for me either."

"Yeah." Dean nodded, going to sit back on the bed as John took off his jacket, walking to the minifridge, where he took out a bottle of whiskey, twisting he cap off as he walked to the bathroom. With one hand he took a few large swallows, the other hand busy peeling open his shirt as he went.

Dean stifled a gasp as he saw the garment fall open, the pale green plaid stained with large brown-red patches.

He found himself moving toward the bathroom after his dad, who stood before the sink, where he beer now sat, peering down at a series of jagged cuts that crisscrossed his chest.

"Wh—what happened?" Dean asked his words seeming to disappear into the dank night air as John stood, silently looking at the cabinet for a moment before he pulled out a washcloth, which he unceremoniously doused with alcohol.

"Werewolf," he said as he lifted the cloth toward the wounds, which, sucking in a sharp breath, he pressed it against.

"Oh…" Whatever Dean might have said died before it came out. He could now see that the gashes were claw marks.

"Never let any of them get close enough to do this to you, son," John instructed, wiping away blood. His face tensed slightly as he lifted the alcohol now, slowly pouring it down the series of gashes.

"Yes sir," Dean breathed.

"Get me the first aid kit," John said, not looking away from the sink as he pressed the cloth again to the wounds.

"Yes sir," Dean said quickly, running to dig it from his dad's suitcase.

He brought it back, placing it on the counter, where John opened it wordlessly, grabbing surgical tape, which he proceeded to use to pull the edges of the cuts together. Bandages were plastered over this, after which, he grunted tiredly, shutting it.

"Go back to bed, Dean." John nodded to Dean, who complied, moving to the bed Sam lay asleep in. Sam's eyes opened as he pulled the blanket from where Sam held it in his fists, peeling back the corner. "Wh—" Sam muttered bewilderedly.

"Everything's OK," Dean asserted as he slid into bed beside his brother.

"Dad's back."

"Oh, ok," Sam yawned, rolling over as he relinquished one of the pillows to his brother. Dean who settled in the spot beside him, easing back into the welcoming oblivion of sleep, side by side in the warm bed, the weight of the past few days disappearing into the night.

John emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, having washed away the last traces of blood and put on a clean teeshirt and pajama pants.

Passing by on the way to the bed Dean had vacated, he paused, watching them for a moment. He tucked Sam's foot back under the blankets where it had migrated to flop off the side of the bed uncovered, and straightened the covers around Dean's shoulders, whose eyes opened as he did so.

"Good night, son," he nodded, kissing him on the forehead.

"Night, Dad."


End file.
